Ageing and Time

I remember when I was pregnant and when my children were very young that time really really dragged. I always seemed to be waiting for another time, or for visitors, or for the washing to dry, a TV programme to come on etc etc. It felt like each day went on forever and that my life would always be like that. I would wake up in the morning and find I had this everlasting space where I could take my time to get things done (or not), where the day stretched before me and the evening would slowly come.

I remember when I had a conversation with someone much older than me who said, 'enjoy love, it doesn't last - as you get older time starts to rush by and there is never enough'. I can't even remember who told me this but I remember not believing them. How could this be?

Now I am fifty and my life rushes by, I wake up in the morning always longing for a little longer in bed, even on the beautiful sunny mornings we have had recently. Then I get up and do the morning chores - I feed the animals and let the dog out for a wee, I empty the dishwasher and the washing machine and hang the washing out - rush to shower and wash my hair before hoping I have enough time to take the dog on the beach for a reasonable (or if I am lucky a long walk), before going to work, or out, or shopping, or hoping I can find time to do housework or reading or watch some daytime TV, or if I am really lucky maybe even do something creative.

And then the day is gone - I am home from work - often bloody tired - trying to find time to do the ironing and potter around the garden a bit, or sewing or reading etc, etc. And then I find myself longing for my bed (normally about now, and as I type this I am thinking if I go to bed early I might find it easier to get up in the morning).

And the day is gone, again.
And the week is gone, again.
And the month is gone, again.
And the year is gone, again.
And I find myself at 50 with time rushing past me uncontrollable and longing for a quiet time.

I suspect if I am still blogging at 60 or 70 or even 80+ then this might be a very different blog - it might be talking about how slow life is again. The days dragging forever, waiting to die (well I won't say that but that is how I might feel).

Dix

Did you know?

Did you know -

it's the fashion for boys to wear pink underwear.

They have to have their trousers hanging down -

to show them off.

Dix

BR - the Finker Question

I have just finished this book and to be honest I am not sure why I kept with it. I brought it because I read it was the first humorous book to win the Booker. I thought this sounded good and it was worth a try (I waited until it came out in paperback though as it was expensive in hardback).

I have to admit it had humour in it, it made me smile a couple of times but in the end I felt like I was reading something that was, well frankly, labouring the point. I felt like I was reading something that maybe wasn't really meant for me, that somehow I wasn't in the right club, the right race, the right intellectual band to read this book - and I hate that. I didn't really understand what the question was? The characters were strange, particularly the main character somehow he didn't quite add up - it was full of sadness and did portray that terrible feeling of sadness and loss well. The ending was low and somehow I felt like sadness had won - I know there is a place for endings like this but I have to admit generally they are not so much for me. Nobody felt like they learnt anything and I guess as the reader I felt like I hadn't learnt anything.

It did make me think about being Jewish (obviously I am not) and what that might mean, what that means as an political, racial and identity issue. But somehow it felt like in doing this it was basically 'taking the mickey' and this did not feel comfortable. I realise that might have been what the author was trying to achieve and maybe he wanted us to feel uncomfortable but in doing so I wish I had cared more about the characters - I wish I had cared at all.

This book is not a keeper or something I would recommend to others yet I suspect it may be a book I will remember for a long time - strange that.

So now I have to return to my huge pile of un read books and choose something else. I want to read something that grabs me, that makes me want to turn the page and stay awake and laugh or cry and mostly makes me sad it had finished.

Any ideas.

Dix

Another fab pressie

My mate Lenny also sent me this painting - isn't it cool. I am pretty sure it is based on a trip we all took to London when we visited the Tate Modern. This was a scene from the underground when I had had a couple too many of this wonderful raspberry cocktail and was just a little well, tipsy. I am hoping Lenny will explain this painting more - I think I am the blonde with the big red mouth (I wonder why) but will let you know more, I hope.

Both the works are being framed up and put up in the lounge. I love original work - always have and I love it when people make things for me. I have some great notebook covers that JC has made and carry one with me all the time - I always cherish things like this, totally original and irreplaceable.

Love to my great mates and hope to see you soon.

dix

The Birthday Presents

I received this present from my friend Luna Lenny who is currently living in France - it is fab. It is her version of one of my Bob poems and I love it. It feels strange to have someone write a Bob poem but also amazing (if that makes sense).

Bob Went on Holiday (to Lenny's)

Bob twiddles his thumbs
"I'm bored," said Bob.
... "But you've only just got here"
"Yeah, and it ALREADY SHIT"
"Oh," ......... "Sorry, Bob."
.......................................
.................................
................................
"That's fiftenn minutes of my life
I'm NEVER Getting back."
......................BYE BYE, Bob

Witches' Knickers

Witches’ Knickers by Ghillain Potts

A plastic bag blew along the street and up into a tree.
“Hey, witches’ knickers!” said Freddie
“What? Where?” said Megan.
“There! In the tree. Look!”
Megan looked up. In the top of the tree was an orange plastic bag. The wind tugged at it.
“That’s not knickers!” Megan told him. “That’s a bag. From the supermarket.”
“No, it’s some witch’s knickers. See, they swoop down on their broomsticks and they don’t see the tree in the dark till the last minute and the tree grabs their knickers as they swoosh past and – no knickers!”
Hamid came along. “What’re you looking at?” he asked.
“Witches’ knickers,” said Freddie, pointing.
“Oh, right.” Hamid nodded.
The bag fought the tree. The wind pulled. The bag puffed up.
Megan sniffed. “So why would a witch be wearing a plastic bag for knickers, anyway?”
“Ah!” said Freddie. “Plastic bags are windproof, OK? And when the witch flies around on her broomstick, it’s windy, OK? And the wind is cold. So to stop the wind making her bum cold, she pulls a bag on over her real knickers!”
“Freddie,” said Hamid. “Nobody could wear a plastic bag. Where would you put your legs?”
“Umm. Through the handles?” Freddie grinned.
“Don’t be daft.” Megan told him. “That wouldn’t work.”
“Yes it would! Witches have awfully thin legs.” Said Freddie.
“Rubbish!” Megan sniffed. “What you would have to do is cut the two bottom corners off and put your legs through the holes. Then you could put some string through the handles and tie it around your waist.”
Freddie shrugged. “OK, so that’s what they do.”
The bag filled with the wind and jerked at the tree.
“I bet the witch’s come back and she’s tugging it.” Said Freddie.
The bag pulled free and whirled up and up.
“It’s escaped!” shouted Hamid. “Go, bag, go!”
“And it wasn’t a witch’s knickers.” Said Megan. “because there weren’t any holes in the bottom. So there!”
That night, Megan put on her black robe and her black cloak and tied her pointy black hat tightly under her chin.
Then she put on her orange plastic-bag knickers, got on her broomstick and flew out of the window.

I found this book in Waterstones bookshop, reduced because the cover was damaged. Most of the stories (all written in 366 words) are either good, bad or ok. But this particular story really took my attention. I would love that every carrier bag floating around was a pair of witches' knickers and when I see one now I always say 'witches knickers' to myself. I know it is a very different image from American Beauty where he video a bag floating around his yard but it makes me smile. This is definately the sort of short story, and particularly children short story that I would like to be able to write. It just made me smile and I hope it makes you smile too. And hope the author Ghillain Potts doesn't mind me blogging it here.

Jangling Edge

I feel on edge.
My nerves are jangling.
Please.

I feel like shouting,
shouting to release.
Please -

I need to calm
down my jangling nerves.
Please ...

I fell the urge,
the urge to be alone
Please let me be.

Please leave me
Please leave me alone.
Please give me time to be alone
Please give me time to chill
and find me!

by Dix